Annotations
by leighthepeach
Summary: A collection of ficlets and moments detailing what Varric left unwritten. He told the Seeker everything she needed to know and nothing even close to the truth. At least not about them.
1. Pick Your Battles

A clatter of metal against wood, the scrape of something sharp as it drags along the floor. Varric shouldn't associate these sounds with Hawke, shouldn't expect to see her face bloodied and bruised as she stumbles into his room. Thank the Maker it's the crack of dawn, even the bawdy drunks must be asleep in their cups by now.

"You look like hell, Hawke. Who did you pick on this time?"

Her teeth show through lips dripping red, a grin that manages to light up even the dingy corners of the Hanged Man. "Hey! You know the templars always pick on me first."

His head shakes ruefully. As if the templars need more excuses to loathe Hawke. Not like she's an unapologetic, opinionated apostate running around their city or anything. Why not add the actual murder of some of their rank and file to the list? Meredith will love it. "Of course they do."

Hawke leans her staff against the wall, heads for a chair until he nudges her toward the bed. Like he's going to let her sit up in a chair in this state. She huffs at his prodding, but doesn't have the patience to resist for long. A good call. He can easily match her in talent for being a magnificent pain in the ass when necessary.

She falls onto the mattress, shoves off her boots. Her long fingers fumble at the clasps of her armor.

And he notices them shake.

His hands are gentle as they grasp her wrists, take over the task without a word. The armor is scratched and dented, covered in ash and drying gore. He doesn't balk, but carefully pulls away each piece until only fabric and skin remains. He sees what the armor hid. Her clothes are ripped, the ragged edges stained a dark red. And her skin is covered in bruises, purple and blue spatters. Ink upon white parchment, except he'd never call this art.

Turning, he retrieves one of his shirts, throws it over his shoulder in her general direction.

While she changes, Varric begins to tick off his fingers, a comprehensive list of the people Hawke has managed to piss off. "The city guard, magisters, slavers–"

Of course she immediately picks up on what he's doing and chimes in, "Your brother, the Viscount."

"– nobles in general, basically every gang in Kirkwall–

"Pretty sure the Chantry doesn't like me either. Oh, and Carver. Even though I don't deserve that one."

By now, the sound of rustling fabric has stopped. He turns to face her again. She sits in the middle of the bed, knees pulled up to her chest. "–and the templars. You ever heard the phrase 'pick your battles'?"

Damn if she doesn't smirk, waiting for the punchline.

"You do realize that means you don't choose all of them, right?"

Her laugh is like summer rain, warm and sweet, beautiful even if it comes with a storm. "Are you going to try to make me put some back?" Her dark brows arch, challenging him.

Trying to start yet another battle. Of course.

"Nah, I know better. I'll be right beside your stubborn ass through all of them." A long-suffering sigh, as if it's a chore. But then he meets her gaze, that striking blue, brighter than lyrium and, to him, infinitely more addictive. And in that look is the same promise buried in his words.

"Ever my trusty dwarf." Another huff of laughter, as if it's all a joke. But she knows better.

He knows she knows.

"Yeah, ever yours."


	2. Swept

"You know, Varric, I've always wondered…," she trails off suggestively, laying the bait she knows he'll take just to indulge her.

A smirk and a shake of his head as he looks up from his manuscript to where she sits on the bed. "Enlighten me, Hawke."

"How would _**you**_ kiss me?"

A brow lifts. "Do you need a demonstration or–?"

"No–well, I mean I wouldn't mind, of course. But, you've described me making out with just about everyone at this point. To hear you tell it Fenris slams me into walls, Isabela jumps into my arms." She grins, spreads her hands. "Well? What would my dashing, roguish lover do in one of your grand romance scenes? Seduce me into a kiss with nothing but a peek of your chest hair? Drag me down to your lips in a moment of passion?"

"And miss an opportunity to use one of the greatest lovey-dovey tropes ever? Not a chance."

"Tell me!"

"I don't know, Hawke. Might be better if I write it down first."

"Varric."

"I'm just saying! Romances have never been my strong s–"

"Varric!" Hawke is all wide blue eyes, pleading and desperate and headed toward pissed if she doesn't get her way.

Damn he loves it.

"Alright, alright. If it were our story, our kiss, there's only one way it could go." Smiling, Varric clears his throat, leans forward. The storyteller, ready to begin.

 _"Hawke took him by surprise. A natural-born hero who wasn't perfect. She cursed and drank too much at night. She'd sooner punch a templar in the face than listen to them. A crazy-ass apostate who smeared red shit on her nose just to stand out._

 _'To screw with my enemies' heads,' she told him. 'What's scarier than smearing yourself in blood and smiling about it.'_

 _'It's not really blood,' he pointed out._

 _'Yeah, but they don't know that.'"_

She giggles and he shoots her a look. "Do you want me to continue?"

A hand lifts to cover her mouth. "I'll be good, I swear."

 _"I'm telling you, Hawke did the craziest shit and that's why he loved her. All fireballs and crooked grins. And damn, she was so beautiful. Eyes like lyrium only harder to quit. Curves that made a man dizzy if he looked too long. And one day, he just couldn't take it anymore._

 _'What would I do without my trusty dwarf,' she asked. And it was then he realized he never wanted to find out. Because he couldn't imagine a life that didn't have him at her side._

 _'Your dwarf, Hawke?' Suddenly all the words they ever said weren't jokes anymore and both of them knew it. 'Am I yours?'_

 _Breathless, she whispered, 'Yes, mine.' And that's all it took. Varric broke. He caught her hand, pulled until he could finally, finally kiss her. It was slow and sweet, but not enough. Not even close._

 _His strong arms slipped around her waist and shoulders and tilted her back until she was clinging to him. And then he devoured her, making up for every kiss he hadn't taken. Hard and hot and desperate, he truly believed he couldn't get enough. He still believes that."_

Hawke's lips are parted, delight and desire. And he's already at her side when she says, "I think I'm going to need that demonstration now."

And of course Varric is only to happy to oblige.


	3. Demon Whisperer

Nothing prepares someone for this shit.

Varric has followed Hawke to every Maker-forsaken corner in Kirkwall, faced off with the Coterie and Templars and thugs, watched her stand against every new foe with a grim smirk on her face and fire at her fingertips.

But there's no smirk now. The demons are nightmares made real, appearing without warning. All twisted, oily flesh and long, sharp claws. Just the look of them is enough to send most running.

Then they shriek, a sound that makes his blood freeze in his veins, scrapes the inside of his skull. And it's not just the sound. The air around them is thick with fear. Varric watches Aveline halt in place, knows he's just as paralyzed.

Then she screams back.

Hawke takes two steps forward, plants her feet, throws her whole body into another explosive scream. And it's not a cry of fear. Hell no. Its a battle cry, a defiant roar.

And enough to make even demons pause.

Holy shit.

After that, Hawke charged in and they followed. Now all that's left is gore. Aveline leaves in grim silence, Carver marches back home swearing. Varric needs a drink and insists Hawke get one too.

He observes her quietly over the rim of his tankard. Trying to put pieces together that just…shouldn't be possible.

"What the hell was that, Hawke?"

A fine black brow arches. "What was what?"

"Don't pretend."

"Oh. That's my way of demon whispering. A lot louder though." A grin appears, but Varric forces himself to hold her eyes. Always ready to make a joke, deflect with wits and charm.

But he knows every step to that dance. This time he breaks pattern on purpose.

"Hawke."

Those bright eyes that crackled with defiance only hours ago dart away. Her fingers tighten on her cup.

A deep breath and finally, "It's just how I…handle it. Them. Demons prey on fear, helplessness. All your worst emotions." Her eyes are far away now, her voice matter-of-fact. And Varric knows she's speaking from experience, that the freak show he saw for the first time tonight, she's seen over and over. In her dreams, perhaps reality too.

Her mouth tightens into a hard line. "I'll be damned before I give them what they want." Them who? The demons or every fanatic in Thedas waiting to point fingers if she fails?

A few heavy seconds pass and then he chuckles. "Hawke the demon-whisperer. I'll have to remember that." The levity shatters and he can see her relief in the line of her shoulders.

Though he smirks with her, Varric's mind is reeling. He found far more than an exceptional mage in Hightown.

A woman who stares down any challenge, who looks despair and horror in the eyes and screams her dominance.

A force of nature, a legend, a champion in the making.

And he can't look away.


End file.
